Giving a strangled cry, Robert released Gytha. He turned to flee but was not quick enough. Thayer caught him up by the front of his bright cotehardie. Robert’s feet dangled several inches above the floor and he began to make choking noises as his slender, soft hands plucked uselessly at the large hand Thayer held him with.
Noting Robert’s difficulty, Gytha murmured, “I should think t’would be somewhat difficult for him to answer whilst held so.” She smiled faintly when the Red Devil briefly glanced her way.
Easing his choking hold on his cousin, Thayer snapped, “Answer. Why?”
“Uncle told me,” Robert gasped. “He was the one who said you were slain in France.”
Releasing Robert, who squealed softly as he tumbled ungracefully to the floor, Thayer rubbed his chin as he frowned in thought. “But of what use is such a lie? Neither you nor Charles could gain from my death.”
With Gytha’s and Margaret’s help, Robert unsteadily got to his feet. “Of course I gain. Are you not William’s heir and I yours?” He gave a soft, high-pitched scream as he was yet again grabbed by the front of the cotehardie.
His face but inches from Robert’s pale one, Thayer bellowed, “Where is William?”
“Dead,” squeaked Robert and was tossed aside, striking his head on the floor hard enough to render him unconscious.
Whirling to glare at Gytha’s father, Thayer snarled, “As dead as I?”
“Nay, William is truly dead.”
“Claims who? That lying adder Robert claims as kin?”
“William’s own squire brought us the news.”
“How did William meet his death?”
“He fell from his mount or was thrown. His neck was broken. I am sorry.” Despite the many clues tossed out in the brief, loud confrontation, John was still uncertain of who the angry man was. “You are Sir Thayer Saitun?”
“Aye.” His thoughts centered on the loss of William, Thayer absently endured a round of introductions. “William is dead, yet the wedding goes forward?”
Pausing in helping Margaret try to revive Robert, Gytha answered, “I was to marry your cousin here.”
Seeing the dark frown that continued to mar Thayer’s face, John rushed to explain. “It adheres to the agreement.”
“What agreement?”
“The one between myself and William’s father—foster-father and uncle to yourself and Robert. We arranged the marriage while Gytha was still but a babe. The plague had just left its first scar upon the land, so the agreement was drawn up a little—er, strangely.” He paused to send his wife to fetch his copy. “Gytha’s name was used, but not William’s. His father wanted the houses joined. As I did. There were three of you who could reach maturity to achieve that. William, yourself and Robert. All of you were in his care at the time. The agreement was made that Gytha would be wedded to the heir of Saitun Manor—the surviving heir, be it William, yourself, or Robert.”
Hurt pricked at Gytha when Thayer turned to stare at her. His eyes widened as the color seeped from his face. He looked horrified. It was the one reaction she had never received from a man. She knew it would not have pained her if it had been from any other man. She had never cared what a man thought of her. It struck her as decidedly unfair that she should care now with the one man who seemed to see her as a curse.
Lady Raouille thrusting a document into his hand yanked Thayer from his shocked stupor. For a moment he stared at it blankly, his mind plagued by scattered thoughts. He was a man of property now, of property and title. That largesse he would find no hardship in accepting. It was the price he had to pay to gain it that nearly stopped his heart. He had to take a wife. And what a wife! For a man like him to wed such a beauty was nothing less than a curse.
Finally he forced himself to read the document he held, but he found no release there. In his foster-father’s bold script, it stated that the holder of Saitun Manor would wed Gytha Odel Raouille when she reached the age of seventeen. It was no longer William’s wedding he attended, but his own. His gaze settled briefly on Gytha as she and another young woman helped a still groggy Robert to a seat. Then he looked at John Raouille.
“This is legal?”
“Legal and binding. Surely you must see that the king himself affixed his seal, approving the joining of our houses.”
Thayer saw that all too clearly. He was bound by his foster-father’s word to wed Gytha. The king’s approval added even more weight to that which duty set upon him. In truth, that approval was much akin to a royal command. The title of Lord, baron of Saitun Manor, was now his, as was Saitun Manor. So too was the wealth it held. So too was Gytha Raouille whether he wanted her or not. He was there. The bride was there. The wedding was prepared. There was no escape.
Still stunned by the turn of events, Thayer allowed himself to be set at the table between John and Gytha. He only vaguely took notice of a concerned Roger sitting down next to Gytha or an equally concerned Margaret sitting next to Roger. He needed more than concern at the moment. Robert sat next to Lady Raouille looking as if he would burst into tears at any moment. Thayer had a fleeting urge to do the same. He barely acknowledged the high quality of the food and wine he partook of as he struggled to find a way out, only to fail again and again.
Gytha took one look at her morose bridegroom, emptied her wine goblet, and had it immediately refilled. She saw that it stayed full as the meal dragged on, hoping to wash away her hurt with wine. She knew it was not stung vanity that caused her pain, not fully. It was true enough that men had always reacted to her favorably. It was also true that she had never particularly cared whether they had or not. This time she cared. For the first time in her life she had felt an honest stirring of interest in a man, real feeling for him. This time the man took little interest in her smiles. This man reacted to the news of their impending marriage as if just told he had contracted the plague. She decided that soaking herself in wine was exactly what she needed. Holding her goblet out for yet another refill, she ignored Margaret’s attempts to catch her attention.
Margaret finally grew so concerned for Gytha she forgot her manners. Leaning back, she reached around an amused Roger to poke at Gytha, drawing her cousin’s attention at last. The brightness of Gytha’s eyes when she turned to look at her did nothing to ease Margaret’s concern.
“Will you cease swilling wine like some—”
“Reveler?” Gytha smiled brightly and took a deep drink of her wine. “’Tis a revel, is it not? My very own revel in fact. So, I am reveling.”
